I introduced myself, stressing my married surname.
“Your parents did not tell me you were married,” Kunichika said, smiling. I noticed his eyes move to take in the framed wedding photograph on my dressing table. “But now that I have seen you I am glad that you have a husband to keep you safe from prying eyes — including mine!”
Mother laughed. “Professor, you would not be interested in a thing like her!”
“Yes, Professor Kunichika, I am extremely fortunate to be married to my husband,” I said, looking him straight in his crystal-clear eyes. My neck felt hot and bare. I became aware that I had lifted my chin to look up at his face; suddenly that pose seemed stiff and awkward.
Mother snorted as she began, instinctively, to clear my books from my desk, tidying them into a pile in a corner of the room.
“Please, call me Mamoru. I insist,” he said.
He had very thick hair, black and glossy. His angular features — sharp nose and strong cheekbones — were accentuated by the colour of his skin, which was pale and spoke of Northern climates. At certain moments he even looked slightly European. His body was lean and languid, but he seemed to be a man of considerable strength. Perhaps it was merely his height which created that impression.
“Isn’t the professor the handsomest man you have ever seen?” Mother said, linking her arm through his.
“The professor comes from a famous samurai family,” Father said. “He is a marquis.”
“Professor Kunichika is certainly a distinguished-looking man,” I said. There was something elusive in his face, something that reminded me of the dark, delicate features of the foxes that emerge from the jungle to prey on our chickens. When disturbed, they simply stop and stare at you with cool eyes, their white faces shining in the night.
“Well, he is the handsomest man I have seen,” said Mother.
“What are you a professor of, Professor?” I asked.
“You seem disbelieving,” he said.
“You don’t look much like a professor to me.”
Mother said, “He’s too handsome to be a professor, isn’t that right?”
He shrugged and said, “A little bit of everything.”
“Such as?” I said.
“Linguistics, Western literature — particularly Russian, philosophy. .”
“Philosophy,” Mother breathed, nodding at me.
“Jack-of-all-trades.” He laughed. “Your father is a famous scholar, and I hear you take after him.”
“I don’t aspire to any great heights,” I said.
Mother snorted again and mumbled something.
“I will certainly never be a professor,” I added.
“That is a shame,” he said with a sad smile. “Tell me — if I don’t look much like a professor, what do I look like?”
“I’d say you were a military man.”
He laughed out loud. His voice was rich and clear. “Look at these hands — I can’t even hold a shovel, much less a gun!”
Mother and Father both laughed loudly.
“It seems I am mistaken,” I said.
As they turned to leave, Kunichika said, “I sincerely hope I will have the honour of meeting you again — and your husband too.”
Mother said, “If that good-for-nothing fool is ever around, that is.” “Please,” Father said, smiling.
I watched Kunichika leave and walk across the yard. I tried to hide behind the shutters but it was as if he sensed my presence, and he looked straight at my window; I had no choice but to acknowledge him. He took off his hat and waved at me, and then continued walking towards the path leading into the plantation. He did not have a motorcar or even a bicycle. The walk through the plantation is a long one — very nearly a mile — particularly in this heat. How did he get here? I remained at the window for a while, watching him vanish into the shadows.
IN RECENT DAYS I have not been able to stop thinking about my early times with Johnny. I suppose this is unsurprising, given what I have decided to do. When I remember the things we did I seem to be recalling events from a very distant past. I have to remind myself that all these things happened little more than a year ago. The details are still fresh in my mind, but I do not know how long they will last.
One of the things I think about most often is the very first time I saw him. It was in the middle of the monsoon season and it had been raining hard for two days. I had not set foot outside the house all day and was feeling somewhat restless. I stood at the window watching the storm turn the front yard into a paddy field. On such days all I can hear is the rain. Although we are surrounded by forest, I have noticed that birdsong and the call of cicadas cease, resuming only when the downpour eases. But on that particular day there was another sound, one I could not place at first. It began as a faint tinkling, like a small child cheerfully playing with three keys of a piano. As it got louder I realised it was a bicycle bell. I could not believe that anyone would be cycling in such weather.
